Demons
by Crystallic Rain
Summary: Sherlock had been in hiding for the better part of two years, slowly and precisely taking down those in Moriarty's network. With the madman himself gone, it was only a matter of destroying the remnants of his work. He glanced up, and, sitting in the chair, was a man in a grey suit, the very same suit he'd seen him die in. Eventual Johnlock. Hallucination Moriarty.
1. Part One

**Demons  
****[Part One of Five]**

_"Don't wanna let you down, but I am hell-bound;_  
_Though this is all for you, don't wanna hide the truth._  
_No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed._  
_This is my kingdom come; this is my kingdom come."  
- _"Demons" by Imagine Dragons

**WARNING: ****MENTIONED DRUG USE & HALLUCINATIONS.**

* * *

It was easy, really.

Not the mission he was on; no, that certainly was _not_ easy. He'd been in hiding for the better part of two years, slowly and precisely taking down those in Moriarty's network. With the madman himself gone, it was only a matter of destroying the remnants of his work. It was, however, proving difficult, as the man had a vast spiderweb of influence that reached every last continent, every single corner of the world.

For a while, it had been quick work. He was constantly on the move, a majority of his targets located in and near Tibet, and there was adrenaline pumping through his veins and burning his lungs. And for a dead man, he felt incredibly _alive_, so alive that it was easy to stop thinking about what he'd left behind. Instead, he shoved it away, buried deep in a part of his mind that he often found quite easy to ignore. He could focus and move on.

And then, things came to a screeching halt; there was a sudden lull as the number he was searching for had substantially declined. Now he was only seeking a few who were deep into hiding, constantly awaiting any word from Mycroft. But even then, the gaps between those messages were becoming longer and longer, and Sherlock began to feel the darkness encroaching on the space in his mind that he'd previously kept clear.

So then, it was so, _so easy_, to find himself in that damn hotel room he'd confined himself to for the past week, not a word from Mycroft, but an empty syringe in his hand, another on the bedside table, and the two tiny puncture marks in his arm as proof of what he'd done to himself.

He could feel the drug working, fully aware of what it was doing to his brain—blocking the norepinephrine, serotonin, and dopamine from being reabsorbed, instead building up to give the desired—_needed_?—effect, the feeling of euphoria. His mind felt active again, stimulated, and suddenly it felt as though he could breathe, because with the poison running through his veins, that meant he couldn't be overwhelmed with the feeling of _loss_ because he'd lost everything.

Bittersweet, he mused. He had to lose everything in order to save everything. A bit funny how those things worked out.

He closed his eyes as he reveled in his current state, the blissful feeling of his blood pumping and mind racing and endorphins rushing, while still wonderfully blocking out everything that he wanted to. Yes, this was any easy fix.

"Tsk, tsk, what would the doctor say about this?"

His eyes snapped open at the sound of that voice.

It was impossible, he quickly assured himself. Dead. He'd seen it himself, and Mycroft had managed to have it confirmed, to give him some sort of peace of mind. No, he tried to tell himself, it wasn't real.

He glanced up, and, sitting in the chair near the stiff mattress he was situated on, was a man in a grey suit, the very same suit he'd seen him die in.

"Hallucinations," Sherlock murmured under his breath. It was a side-effect of cocaine, he knew that, but it wasn't one that he'd ever experienced before. And for his very first hallucination to be of _this man_? "How disappointing." Even he was surprised at the lack of contempt in his voice; it was mild and even. Funny. His brother had pointed out once that he was noticeably irritable when he was using; but really, what was the point of being angry at something that wasn't real?

"Oh, my dear Sherlock," the man simpered, "is that anyway to greet an old friend?"

At this, Sherlock huffed out a sigh of annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Of all the things I consider you, Moriarty, a friend is definitely not one of them."

Jim Moriarty only continued to smile at Sherlock in that horrific way, and the detective hated him a little bit more. He tried to reason with himself; this vision was not real. There was no use in feeling angry, he'd already established that. And why on earth was he actually _talking_ to him? It wasn't logical; this wasn't talking to the skull on his mantle or John when he was only half-listening or maybe not even there. This was talking to a man he loathed, a dead man, who was sitting in a chair in his hotel room, legs crossed and eyes shining. This man was a drug-induced image, only there to—to what? Probably to mentally torture Sherlock; he couldn't even have this moment of peace.

Sherlock scowled a little bit at the realization that, as much as he despised the man, the company was still strangely welcome. He was so used to a lifetime of being alone, but without John, his only friend, he'd found himself so _lonely_. He shook his head and released another angry sigh. This was ridiculous. Defying all logic and reason. And now, he was allowing a small part of himself to admit that he was a bit _sentimental_.

All because of the man in his hotel room. The dead man. The man that wasn't real.

"Ohh, I'm not going anywhere for a bit, love," Moriarty told him. "Have I ever been easy to get rid of, really?"

Sherlock tried to retreat; he closed his eyes and repositioned himself on the bed. He would ignore the image. That was all there was to it. He would withdraw himself back into his body and mind, to let every lasting sensation of the drug overtake his senses…

"Oh no, that's not how this works," Moriarty said. Suddenly, Sherlock was certain that he could feel warm breath ghosting his cheek. His eyes opened, and he was face-to-face with his hallucination. "You don't get to just will me away."

"You're not real," Sherlock hissed. "You're a figment of my mind and my induced state. For some reason I've managed to conjure you up, so I can definitely make you disappear."

Moriarty chuckled. "But you won't," he assured the other man. He pulled back a little, and the space allowed for Sherlock to sit up a little more on the bed.

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"You _need_ me," Moriarty said. "My dear, you need me in order to get anywhere." Sherlock only stared at him with narrowed eyes, and the apparition laughed. "Oh, you can't even see it, can you?" He was met with no answer. "Well, it's all the same to me. I missed our little games, Sherlock—"

"You mean _your_ games—"

"—and I'm really feeling quite generous," he went on, as though Sherlock hadn't spoken. He leaned in again, and whispered, "I'll give you a little hint."

The detective scoffed and tried to close his eyes again. He did his best to ignore the feeling of the man so close to him because, after all, he _wasn't real_, he shouldn't be getting to him like this…

"What you _need_," Moriarty sing-songed, "is a change of scenery…"

Sherlock bolted upright in his bed, his mind suddenly racing. "_Where_?" he demanded.

"Think," Moriarty breathed out. "Use that brilliant brain of yours, love."

Sherlock ignored the patronizing compliment and term of endearment. His mind was racing now. He'd been dancing around this for weeks—he needed to move, to find the next place, to get out of Tibet, but _where_? The details weren't making sense…

"For a cold-hearted man, what would be the biggest motivator in location?" Moriarty demanded, an edge to his voice, but still so soft.

_Cold-hearted_—not love, then. So no details were needed about personal lives. It was a generalization. Then what—greed?

"Money," Sherlock breathed out.

"And where could help _fuel_ that desire?" Moriarty pressed on.

_There_, another clue, only minimally disguised, this time. _Fuel_. Sherlock ran over the statistics in his head, quickly narrowing the choices down, until it suddenly seemed to click.

_Large reserve of fossil fuels. Fourth largest petroleum reserves. Largest natural gas supply._

"Iran," he whispered.

And then it was _clear_, the first lead he'd had in weeks, one he'd been so close to for so long, if he'd only used his brain to really _think_…

He whipped out his phone, quickly preparing to text his brother.

He froze. Was it an actual lead? It was a man who was long since dead that had brought him to the realization, after all. He glanced to the spot where Moriarty had been standing seconds before, but he had vanished. The drug was wearing off, then. He had disappeared along with the euphoric effects.

He shook his head. It was a figment of his mind, thus a way to work through the data he had not yet been able to. Right? An unwanted image, but perhaps he needed that to coax him into the realization he'd been only centimeters away from. Again he shook off the wary feeling of possible doubt. There was nothing else to go on, really, and there was literally _nothing_ else that he could lose by a trip to Iran.

He tapped out a message to his brother: short and simple, declaring his next destination, with no explanation. But, he reasoned, how would he explain to Mycroft just how he'd reached the conclusion? 'In a drug-induced state my mind whipped up an image of Jim Moriarty, who then prompted me into deducing that Iran was a probable location to venture to next.' No. It was best to leave that out.

His phone _pinged_. A short affirmation in response lit up his screen. He nodded silently at it, then settled back onto his bed; it was time to begin preparation, then. He probably had until morning before some messenger from his brother offered an admittedly convoluted method and means of traveling, a new story, a new location to hide. That meant he had about seven hours to memorize every detail he could about Iran and to compile the data in order to properly plan out his next course of action.

Already he could feel the welcome feeling of adrenaline as his mind worked as quickly as it could, the ever-present promise of danger as he plotted his next steps.

And he would definitely stay away from the drugs for a while—he shivered slightly upon remembering the feeling of Moriarty so close to him, the sensation of his breath on his face as he loomed over him. He wasn't real, he reminded himself. Still, that was definitely a memory and feeling he wanted deleted.


	2. Part Two

**Demons  
****[Part Two of Five]**

_"__Curtain's call is the last of all;_  
_When the lights fade out, all the sinners crawl._  
_So they dug your grave and the masquerade_  
_Will come calling out at the mess you've made.__"  
- _"Demons" by Imagine Dragons

* * *

Baker Street was, surprisingly, almost exactly as Sherlock remembered it, despite the three passing years. There was a small layer of dust, but otherwise it seemed as though Mrs. Hudson had kept the flat running, as though her boys would return any day. He only briefly wondered if Mycroft had anything to do with it.

He almost immediately headed toward the bathroom, taking a clean washcloth and holding it under the tap. He pressed it to his face, to remove the smattering of dried blood that still remained from when John had punched him. He irritably walked back into the sitting room, still absently scrubbing at his skin, trying to avoid the tender areas.

Irene had once said that John must love him, to avoid his nose and teeth when he punched him in that ridiculous attempt so long ago. The fact that the white washcloth was now stained pink from his nose and upper lip did not escape him.

He glanced toward the mantle, where the skull still sat, and he sighed, shaking his head at it and dropping the washcloth onto the coffee table. "It seems that things have now changed," he murmured to his only companion.

"Aw, not getting sentimental, now, are we?"

The voice rang through the dark, empty flat in a horrifying trill. Slowly Sherlock turned toward the direction from which it came; there, sitting in John's chair, was Jim Moriarty.

The detective blinked slowly, staring at the man with distrusting eyes. However, knowing that the image was not real did not make it any less unsettling.

The man ran his hands along the arms of the chair, looking up at Sherlock with a smile. The sight of the criminal in _John's_ chair made his insides burn, the anger at the utter disrespect coursing through him. It was _wrong_, so wrong to see that man there, when it belonged to such a good, wonderful person.

Yet there he was—or wasn't—he _was_ only a phantom image, as he was still dead, after all. He had settled himself into the chair, leaning back comfortably with a smirk on his lips. "This place is so homey, isn't it?" he commented. "Pity there's no one to share it with, now."

"No," Sherlock said simply, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. "I can't be hallucinating; I'm clean."

Moriarty chuckled at the man's disbelief. "The good doctor didn't hit you _that hard_," he assured him.

"You're not real," Sherlock said adamantly.

"No," Moriarty said. "I'm not." He paused. "Well, just to you."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded. While he had long ago accepted that, in a drug-induced state, his vision of Moriarty had, in a twisted way, helped him piece together the clues about Iran, he refused to believe that there was some sort of internalized purpose for his current appearance. He wasn't even on a case; there was nothing to piece together, no information to look at. "You're nothing more than a figment of my imagination," the detective continued, half to himself, as he was reluctant to acknowledge the apparition sitting in the room. He eased himself into his own chair, hands clenching at the arm rests. "A lingering hallucination of something I long to forget."

"And yet, here I am!" Moriarty responded, gesturing widely. He pushed himself out of the chair and moved to the fireplace, looking at the skull on the mantle in feigned interest. "Have you even asked yourself why, out of all the people you could have possibly thought up, that it was me you chose to see?"

Now the frustration was mildly building up inside of Sherlock; it was bad enough that his mind was playing tricks on him and making him see the detestable man, but having him insinuating that he, Sherlock Holmes, was _choosing_ to suffer his company? That was just ludicrous, and utterly insulting.

"It's not _that_ ridiculous," Moriarty said calmly. Sherlock's eyes snapped to him, narrowing as he wondered how he could possibly have known what he was thinking. "Oh, don't act so surprised," Moriarty said, turning from the skull with his hands in his pockets, giving him an appearance that was so smug it disgusted Sherlock. "Let me put you out of your misery," he continued in a stage whisper, leaning forward slightly like he was telling a child a secret. There was a snide smile on his lips. "I am here, my dear detective, because you _need_ me here."

It was stated as such a matter of fact that Sherlock couldn't help but stare. _Need _him? He _needed_ him? The mere idea was laughable. "And how could I ever possibly _need_ you?" Sherlock challenged.

A grin slowly widened on Moriarty's face and he chucked a little. The expression was one that Sherlock deeply distrusted. "My dear, _dear_ Sherlock." Moriarty moved from the fireplace and made his way toward him. "_Of course_ you need me. We're each other's complement; the world's only consulting detective and criminal. We're yin and yang, two sides of a coin. We, my darling Holmes, were made for each other."

Many years ago, John had made the same comparison and, at the time, the thought amused Sherlock. But hearing Moriarty jest this way did not have the same feel as when John had done it; it held none of the warmth or light-heartedness. From the deceased criminal, it was accusatory and rather disturbing.

"You disappoint me, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice was enough to bring him back to the present, but what put him on edge was how close his voice was. Somehow Moriarty had moved behind his chair and was now hovering behind him, too close for comfort, even if he was just an image and not truly there. "After all that trouble I went through, all the planning and careful preparation, you couldn't even _die_ right." He sounded so disheartened in the admission that, had it been someone else, he would have recognized it as a place to apologize—which he still wouldn't, though, perhaps with the exception of John. "It gets to lonely in the afterlife, you know. It would have been such fun to have you here with me." Sherlock couldn't stand to admit even to himself that in that moment, he could feel Moriarty gripping the back of his chair, trying to lean closer. He didn't move, refusing to give in to his delusion. "Think of all of the trouble we could cause, chasing each other through the rest of eternity," he hissed, and Sherlock could feel the cool breath on his neck and ear, Moriarty right beside his face. "We could have continued our _game_."

Against all reason and logic, Sherlock felt himself stiffen at the word. He never wanted to hear the word again, and the sound of it falling from Moriarty's lips made his stomach tighten uneasily.

"Oh, don't be like that, sweetheart," he cooed. "I value you too much to kill you twice." He let out a low chuckle. "Still… we would have tried to constantly best each other, always outsmarting one another… Hell, I may have even let you win sometimes, just to see your mind in action." Sherlock sat more rigidly now, at the feeling of fingers running along a few loose curls against the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sensation that he knew wasn't there. "Your beautiful, brilliant mind…" The criminal sounded almost in awe as he spoke, now. "It's what attracted me to you at first. Sure, any fool could call himself a 'consulting detective' and as long as he made decent enough observations, he could make his way. But _you_—" He felt the grip in his hair tighten, to which he squeezed his eyes shut even more. "—were brilliant at every turn. You could make deductions like no one else _ever_ could. It was—" _Tighter still_. "—_breathtaking_." Moriarty's grip loosened, but his hand did not leave Sherlock's hair. His fingers were now brushing through the locks, pulling the curls back, almost massaging his head. "I had admired this mind for so long, but now that I'm actually inside it, living there, _thriving_, it's more than I could have ever dreamed of."

This caused Sherlock to open his eyes. "You're in my mind," he breathed out. It sounded so simple and obvious, stating it; it was, after all, what he'd concluded, aware that the only possibility was for the man to be a hallucination. Still, the gravity of the statement was overwhelming. Jim Moriarty, professional criminal and psychopath, had full range of Sherlock Holmes's mind.

"I must say it's been rather interesting," Moriarty commented in a teasing voice, "walking around your 'mind palace'." He chuckled almost affectionately. The brushing fingers were gone from his hair now, but he'd moved to the arm of the chair, perched even closer than before. "So many pathways and corridors to wander about; so many doors leading to old memories and emotions you'd rather forget." Another low giggle. "But I've gone through these doors, and trust me when I say you won't be forgetting _any_ of those things for a _very_ long time."

A dark edge had seeped its way into Moriarty's voice. It was a darkness that Sherlock had heard several times before now, usually just preceding a threat to his life, or the life of someone around him.

"He doesn't want you anymore, Sherlock." The simple statement caused him to snap his face up so that he met Moriarty's eyes. "You betrayed him. He'll never trust you again, not like before. You may be able to work together again—hell, you may even be _friends_ again, but you'll never go back to the way things were… _before_."

Yet again, Sherlock Holmes had been rendered speechless. He had no idea what to say or how to respond. He tried to think of a retort, any remark, but it was like something had stopped his mind from functioning. He knew that Moriarty was to blame, but he could do nothing about it. He had, after all, taken residence up in his brain; perhaps by this point, he knew it just as well as Sherlock.

"But that's not even the worst of it," Moriarty continued, and the tone of voice made Sherlock hate him with every ounce of his being. "No. That's not what's killing you, eating you from the inside out. The worst part," he said, now looking into him, deeper than ever before, "is that he doesn't _need_ you anymore."

The words were almost whispered, but they did their job. Sherlock felt as though the air in his lungs had gone, that his stomach had dropped; his head felt feather-light. It wasn't true. This was just another mind game, another trick his head was playing on him. He tried to formulate some sort of response—calling him a liar, trying to push through the doubt, using reason… but all that he could come up with was a hollow, "No."

Moriarty flat out laughed at the response. "Oh my dear, sweet, brilliant man…" He reached out and touched his cheek, and Sherlock couldn't help but flinch away; it somehow didn't matter whether it was real or not, anymore. "We both know it's true. Your dear doctor doesn't want _or_ need you anymore! Anything you may have meant to him is _gone_."

"No," Sherlock repeated, unable to form any other words.

"You _betrayed_ him," Moriarty spat. "He left. He moved on."

Sherlock shook his head. "He had to move on," he said, words finally returning. "He thought I was dead; he couldn't just spend his whole life mourning me. It would have been a waste of time and energy." Yes, logic. That he could still do. He felt a small, fleeting feeling of relief.

Moriarty laughed again. "If you really believed that," he said simply, "I wouldn't be here." He smiled. "Yes, he moved on because it's been three years, but that's not the real reason." He moved in front of him and crouched down to maintain eye contact. "He moved on because he _wanted_ to." He was looking directly into Sherlock's pale eyes again, and the detective was unable to look away. "He _wanted_ to be over you. He moved out, and he moved on. And," he added, delightedly, "he replaced you." The words struck harshly again, continuing the cut deep into Sherlock, the knife in his gut twisting so painfully that he thought he'd actually bleed out from it. "He replaced you in every way he could. He replaced you with a new home, and a new job, and most importantly, he replaced you with _her_." Sherlock had to look away; Moriarty didn't need to use a name to specify the 'her' he was talking about; and if the detective was honest, he didn't exactly want to hear the name, anyway. "It _hurts_ you." The hand was back on his cheek, but this time, Sherlock ached too deeply to recoil from the touch. "It hurts you that he has her, that she's the most important person in his life, that they have a home together. He goes to her whenever he wants something, whenever he _needs_ something. She is there for him in ways that you never could be, because he doesn't want you like he wants her—like he _needs_ her."

That damn word again. "How could you possibly know what John needs?" he forced out, his tone biting. "You don't know him."

"Ah, but you do. You know him, and you know what he needs," Moriarty said simply. "Therefore, _I_ know what he needs. That means you and I _both_ are fully aware of what you could never give to him."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, hoping, begging, _pleading_, that when he opened them, Moriarty would be gone. He had grown accustomed to his mind tormenting him in various ways, never stopping, always racing, but this torture was different than any other. He could feel it affecting him all over—mentally, physically, and, admittedly, emotionally. The pain was becoming slowly unbearable, and the worst of it was that he knew he couldn't escape; he was at the mercy of his own mind.

"For someone so brilliant, so sure of himself, you have so much doubt. There's so much second-guessing, built up inside of you." Moriarty leaned in until he was right next to Sherlock's ear, his cool breath ghosting across his cheek. "And I can't wait to open every door and window, to dive into every chasm you have locked inside of you… until it swallows you whole." He could hear the sadistic grin in the vision's voice. "You asked why I'm here. I am here to make good on a promise I made to you long ago."

Moriarty pulled back and grabbed Sherlock's face, forcing him to turn and look into his cold, hollow eyes.

"I _will_ burn the _heart_ out of you." The words echoed in Sherlock's mind from all those years ago. He'd be lying if he said they didn't seem threatening then, but now—now, he felt them in his very core, vibrating beneath his skin, fire in his veins. "If only I had known that _this_ was the way to do it," he sighed. "All that effort into the possibility of killing the ones you care about, but no, this is so much better, to completely destroy you from the inside. If I'd had known the complete _anguish_ you'd suffer, I would have died long before I did, just for a chance at this." He let out a laugh, filling in the silence as he turned from Sherlock and took a few steps before dropping himself once more in John's chair across from him. "I've always had other men do the dirty work," he said casually. "Who would have thought that my accomplice on this one would actually be _you_?"

"Stop!" The shout tore through the detective's throat and echoed through the empty flat. Sherlock had pushed himself up out of his chair, flinging himself angrily to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. His heart was pounding, now, fury ripping through him, but when he looked at the doctor's chair, it was empty.

He gulped in several deep breaths, trying to fill his lungs once more, as they burned angrily from the lack of oxygen. Without a look back, he climbed the flight of stairs to the bedroom that he now supposed belonged to nobody. He glanced around it as he dropped himself onto the mattress. He didn't plan to sleep; he had no hope of getting any rest that night. He only thought that, if he were lucky, maybe he could feel some peace by surrounding himself with John's ghost instead of Moriarty's, disillusioning himself into believing that things would be okay.


	3. Part Three

**Demons  
****[Part Three of Five]**

_"When your dreams all fail, and the ones we hail_  
_Are the worst of all, and the blood's run stale,_  
_I wanna hide the truth; I wanna shelter you._  
_But with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide."  
- _"Demons" by Imagine Dragons

* * *

The entire week had been completely and utterly _awful_, for a lack of a more encompassing term. It had been taxing and tormenting, filled with such pain and anguish and the fight of a case that hadn't quite made sense—a case that led to Mary soon-to-be-Watson Morstan being shot and killed.

To say that John was devastated would be an understatement. When Lestrade had managed to rip the doctor's body away from his dead fiancé's, the man had moved to attack Sherlock.

"_This is your fault and you bloody well know it!"_ he had shouted, the words becoming etched in the detective's brain. "You could have stopped Moran before this, but it has never mattered _who_ gets killed, as long as you get your _case_!"

Donovan had managed to quiet him slightly when he'd looked directly into Sherlock's eyes and spat, "What good were you while you were gone if you didn't get him? You should have stopped this."

Sherlock had stared blankly ahead as Sally managed to take Watson out of the room, presumably to help calm him, out of the presence of the other man. Only a moment later Lestrade was at Sherlock's shoulder. "He didn't mean it," he said, feeling a bit awkward as he attempted to comfort the detective. "He's just—ah—grieving…"

He ignored him and turned on his heel, his coat sweeping behind him, not acknowledging the DI's shout of "_Sherlock!"_ that followed him.

He waited until he was back at Baker Street, changed into his pyjamas, eyes closed and fingers folded beneath his chin as though he were praying, to mentally address the words that John had said. After some time, looking at the facts and compiling the data, revisiting every bit of the case and the last few weeks, he finally came to the conclusion that the doctor was, in fact, correct: it was his fault. It had all been staring at him, so evident, so clear, and yet he had done nothing about it.

Sherlock was to blame for Mary dying; he may as well have pulled the trigger of the gun in Sebastian Moran's hands.

Sherlock didn't sleep that night; he could only assume that John didn't either. However, it wasn't until the next day that he had the chance to see him, when that evening he returned to Baker Street, and made his way straight to the bedroom he'd once occupied.

It was a repeat behavior, in a way, Sherlock observed. Just as he'd more-or-less immediately moved from the flat after Sherlock's 'death', now he couldn't bare to be in the place he'd shared with Mary, as though tortured by memories that haunted the space like ghosts.

For three days, neither of them acknowledged the new arrangement. Sherlock silently observed out of the corner of his eye as John quickly settled back into the flat and the routine that they had once shared. They never spoke, and they never made eye contact; it was hardly as though the other one was even there.

After three days, the moment occurred when Sherlock wondered if his friend had been quietly noting his own behavior, as well. He'd taken to composing, his fingers working mindlessly at his violin, occasionally scribbling notes onto the papers near him. It was as though he wanted to remind John of his presence in the flat without forcing himself upon him.

"Tea?"

Sherlock turned from the window to see John quietly offering him a steaming mug. He didn't have one of his own, and the detective briefly wondered if he'd already had his, or if he was still pointedly ignoring himself and his needs. His eyes flickered to the sink to see that it was empty—the latter, then, he figured.

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, accepting the tea. He put it to his lips before setting it down on the window sill.

For the first time since the shooting, Sherlock finally allowed himself to look at John, _really_ look at him. So much had changed in the past three years, as he had noted on several occasions before. He had started grayling slightly, most likely brought on from stress (he had started noticing it when they first started working together but it had stopped a great deal once they had gotten into the swing of things), though he was sure watching his best friend jump to his supposed death wasn't much to help it. He had gotten thinner, especially in the face; it wasn't a skinniness from working out or from, but more likely from changes in diet from a lack of great physical exertion. His eyes looked sunken, with dark purple rings from lack of sleep, with a slight red hue in the sclera from the constant crying. Sherlock had so far hidden the fact that he had heard him crying the last few nights, out of respect for John, but that didn't make him any more comfortable actually seeing the result of said fits. Seeing his friend in such a state shook him to the core, making him feel, for the first time since Baskerville with Henry Knight, the desire to comfort someone.

He would never show it, of course. Returning from the dead or not, he was still Sherlock Holmes, no matter home much time had passed.

He felt rooted to his place near the window, unsure of what the proper thing to say at a time like this was. Had it been anything, anyone else, he would have looked to John for guidance, but the situation being what it was, he was left to find his footing on his own.

"I don't actually blame you, you know." John's voice once again brought him from his thoughts. "I was just so upset, and hurt, and was looking for someone to blame, and you were the ideal person at the time." Finally looking him in the eyes, Sherlock could see the sincerity in John's words; he could see the pain, the regret brought on by admitting. "I know you would have saved her if you could. I never would have bothered putting my faith in you if I didn't believe you couldn't." John managed a small smile. "Even after everything, I still believe in Sherlock Holmes."

With one last fleeting look at his friend, John headed back up to his room, no doubt to cry himself into a restless night's sleep. He grabbed the door as he turned to leave, most likely to try and keep Sherlock from hearing his sobs, not that it had helped the past few nights. As the door swung close, and before Sherlock could even turn around, his eyes fell on the one thing he wished never to see but that his mind would not let him be free of. The door clicked shut, and Moriarty leaned back against it, as if to keep john from re-entering; had he actually been there that is.

"Well done, my boy," Moriarty droned, the stupid smirk on his face as he stared at Sherlock from his place at the door. "You managed to bring your dear doctor home at last. All it took was the untimely death of the woman he loved, but hey, whatever works for you."

Sherlock turned away, facing the window once more, hoping, fruitlessly, that if he ignored him long enough, Moriarty would just disappear back into his memory where he belonged. But, of course, had yet to be the case with his imaginary foe. Still, he took another sip of his tea, picking up his violin again, though not actually with any intent of playing it again.

"Aw, don't be like that, darling." He heard the man slowly move away from the door and beginning to make his way towards the window. "I'm trying to congratulate you. It's been such a rough few weeks for you, I would have thought having your sweet John back home would make you happy." Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his patience already wearing thin, as always when the vision brought up John, and fought the need to respond. He has broken the last time; he wouldn't let it happen again. "Giving me the silent treatment, are you?" He sounded even closer, though Sherlock refused to acknowledge him. "Don't be that way, love. Not when everything's going so well. Besides, it's not like you can ever really ignore me. You've never been able to turn off that big brain of yours. You certainly aren't going to be able to start doing so now." Sherlock could feel, or would have felt if Moriarty was actually real, the man right behind him, looking over his shoulder out the window.

They (_he_, Sherlock corrected—it was just him standing there) stood there for a moment, just looking at the window. Sherlock continued look off to the side; something inside him, however deeply buried but still there, was afraid to look straight ahead or to his left for fear of seeing Moriarty's reflection staring at him in the window.

"Poor John looked awfully tired, didn't he?" Moriarty tried again, knowing mentioning john would get a reaction out of Sherlock, but he held strong. He wouldn't give in. Not again. "The poor dear hasn't been getting much sleep. Up all night crying over the loss of dear Mary. Not to mention, being back _here_ rather than at home with the love of his life must be rather taxing. But I suppose that's what happens when your best friend lets the woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with die."

He tried not to show it, really he did, but Sherlock felt himself stiffen at Moriarty's words. He knew instantly the man (_image_) saw, from the light chuckle that came from behind him. He couldn't decide which was worse: the insinuation that Sherlock was to blame for Mary's death or the way Moriarty had called a place other than Baker Street John's home. 221B had been John's true home for the past several years—his brief absence didn't change that. Sherlock had always figured, once he had actually come to terms with the fact that John was getting married, that the couple would move into the flat with him. He was even willing to give them the bigger room if that meant keeping his friend close by. He hadn't told John yet but he knew the man would agree—he _had_ to.

"Aw, you're so cute when you get all sentimental, " Moriarty cooed, feeling even closer than before. "The dear doctor tends to bring out your softer side. It's rather endearing." The mocking tone in his voice was enough to make Sherlock finally look over and see Moriarty in the reflection of the window, those cold eyes already looking directly into his. "John wouldn't have come back, you fool. I _already_ told you, he _moved_ _on_. The fact that he's willing to be friends with you means nothing in the long run. All you are is his friend, his coworker, _his_ _boss_. You'll never be anything more to him." He saw the image lean in closer until he was right next to his ear. "No matter _how_ _much_ you wish otherwise." The words sent a chill down his spine. "Even with Mary gone, he would still rather be alone than down here with you. What does that say about you, my sweet detective? That he would rather sit alone in his bed, crying his heart out over his lost love than be in a room with you long enough to hold a full conversation?" Moriarty has moved away and Sherlock had no choice but to turn and follow the voice. "It means," the man said from his place in John's chair, and Sherlock felt his stomach tighten at the sight, "that he was lying when he said it wasn't your fault. He blames you. He blames you and will never ever forgive you for it."

Sherlock locked eyes with the imaginary man, unable to look away as he made his way over to the sofa and sat in his normal spot, needing something to support him as he felt the weight of Moriarty's words upon him. His tea and violin now sat abandoned near the window.

"Time may pass and yes, he will eventually be able to move on from her death, just as he was able to do for you, but you will always be a constant reminder of what he lost and he will resent you for it."

Sherlock wanted to argue; he wanted to tell Moriarty he was wrong. He wanted to say that John wouldn't hold on to that kind of anger, that his friend would forgive him, if he even blamed him, which he didn't because he told him and he _trusted_ John. He wanted to tell Moriarty he wasn't even _real_! And even if he were, he had no insight of what John could possibly be feeling. He wanted to say all of those things…

"But you can't, because you know I'm right." The smug look which had been on Moriarty's face all night was now gone, replaced with that infamous cold as steel serious expression that, even as a hallucination, still managed to strike Sherlock immobile. "You know John blames you, because you know he has the right to. You know he has every right to make you feel guilty because you are. It's your fault she's dead. You could have stopped Moran. You could have saved Mary. You could have saved John's heart. But you didn't. You _chose_ to let her die. You chose to break John's heart again. All because you were too selfish to let him go." Moriarty leaned closer to Sherlock, and even though he was across the room, he felt the need to lean back, away from the former madman. It only did so much as he felt him poring into his very being. "You can lie to yourself and say 'if only I had been clever enough to figure out the clues in time,' but we both know—_John _knows—that's not true. If you really wanted to save her, you would have figured it out in time. But you didn't. You wanted her gone. With her gone, you'd get John back. You didn't care in what state or capacity he was in, as long as you got him." Moriarty leaned back into the chair, the snide look returning to his face, with a touch of pride over his dismemberment of Sherlock's psyche. "So as I said before, congratulations, my brilliant detective. You finally have you doctor back."

And with the simple statement, Sherlock looked at Moriarty with the usual resentment, but also a hint of _resignation_; he was beginning to accept there was no running from the man that had taken up residence in his head.


	4. Part Four

**Demons  
****[Part Four of Five]**

_"They say it's what you make; I say it's up to fate.  
It's woven in my soul. I need to let you go.  
Your eyes, they shine so bright-I wanna save that light.  
I can't escape this now unless you show me how."  
__- _"Demons" by Imagine Dragons

**Note: **Case referenced here is "_The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter_" in the original canon.

* * *

Over the next several months, Sherlock became slowly accustomed to the presence of Moriarty. At first, it was something that he desperately fought, constantly trying to ignore the hallucination and make him disappear. However, as time began to pass more rapidly, Moriarty's appearances became more frequent during that period, and thus harder to avoid. What was once just a vision with months in between appearances was now an image that Sherlock couldn't go a few days without seeing. He was starting to simply accept it as part of the usual inhabitants of his mind.

Still, Sherlock did his best not to acknowledge the happenings in front of others; he may not care what others thought of him generally, but he was aware of how socially unacceptable it would be to address a dead criminal that was residing in his own mind. _Definitely_ a bit not good.

His patience had first been seriously tested when Mrs. Hudson had stopped him in the hallway as he returned home one day, pulling him into her kitchen for a quick cuppa and some biscuits; he was too tired to object, and he was fully aware that the woman had been excessively kind to him since he returned, even if it was nearly a year ago.

He'd allowed the cup to be shoved into his hands before the woman had hastily gone rummaging for a package of ginger snaps. She'd been twittering nonsensically when Moriarty had appeared at Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel the presence before actually seeing the apparition; he could feel the man's breath against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine and causing goosebumps to erupt on his neck.

"Do you think that London would have actually fallen if I'd had the chance to kill her?" the madman whispered. "It would have been interesting to see…"

Sherlock had hastily put down his tea and told Mrs. Hudson that something urgent had come up, he couldn't stay for biscuits. He was, really, only half-lying—Lestrade had asked him to come out for a case, but it only ranked a five on his scale, so he was going to completely skip it initially; it seemed, however, that something like that, no matter how uninteresting, would help keep his mind elsewhere. He'd given a swift kiss to the top of the woman's head; and though she always appreciated the small shows of affection he would offer on rare occasions, Sherlock didn't miss the look of confusion and concern that graced her features as he swept off.

The crime scene, however, was hardly any better. He'd walked in to a motel to find a man dead on the floor. The moment that the two technicians backed away from the body, Sherlock spotted Moriarty looking over the dead man.

"This could very well be the first crime scene I've been to that I haven't helped cause," he commented casually, almost a little excited. "Oh, this is a very special moment indeed."

Sherlock turned to the DI as he came over to him. "So what do you think?" Lestrade asked him, huffing out a sigh.

There was the sound of a camera click, and Sherlock glanced back at the body; Moriarty was now crouched down beside it, holding his phone at arm's length, the lens focused on the corpse and his own smiling face. He pulled the mobile back to him hastily, glancing at the screen. He frowned. "He blinked!"

Sherlock looked back to Lestrade. "Check the brother," he told him flatly. "He's clearly been drinking again." He turned to leave.

"Wait—that's it?" Lestrade queried, looking at him with a similar expression to the one Mrs. Hudson had been wearing earlier. Again, Sherlock chose to ignore it.

He'd come to an almost breaking point about six months in, when he'd been sitting in a lab at St. Bart's; he had been examining samples through a microscope when Molly came in. She'd given him a cheery greeting, to which he gave a small nod of acknowledgment in return.

"Ahh, dear, sweet Molly Hooper," came Moriarty's voice from across the room.

Sherlock's eyes flitted up to the deceased criminal, narrowing slightly before attempting to turn his attention back to the samples. He adjusted the zoom and focus, hoping to get a closer look and thus more details to focus on.

"Do you have _any_ idea of what she thinks about you, Sherlock?" he asked in amusement. "I mean, _really_. Do you have even a small inkling? It's _ridiculous_, really. Goes beyond a school-girl crush and right into hero-worship, I think. But we both know how _stupid_ that is." Sherlock felt his fists clenching reflexively. "You said it yourself to your dear doctor," he pointed out. "But Molly's different. You've never really cared about disappointing her, have you? You've never given her much thought. True—" He held his hands up in surrender. "—you did call upon her for help in faking your death. I must admit, I truly underestimated her in that respect. Imagine all of the ways I could have used her to take you down. Sweet little Molly, you'd never expect _her_! I suppose I should have treated her better." He sneered at the detective, advancing on him. "But you, Sherlock? You're just _cruel_, convincing her that she's _important_—"

Sherlock slammed his fits against the table, a loud thud from the impact and a crash of books falling to floor. Molly looked up at him, completely startled. Sherlock swallowed thickly, trying to even his temper again.

"You okay?" Molly asked him slowly, frowning at him.

He smiled tightly at her. "Fine," he said shortly, sweeping up his things and pulling on his coat. "I just—I have to be off."

She nodded absently for a moment, staring after him.

"Wait!" she called out a beat later. "You forgot—"

Sherlock, however, didn't turn back, and got himself out of the hospital as quickly as he could.

It was after moments like this that Sherlock found himself _really_ wondering what the point in abstaining from cocaine was. He was already hallucinating at a very regular basis; clearly this was a reflection of his shattered psyche. At this point, what did it really matter if he used drugs in order to progress further into the quicksand that was deterioration?

Still, the tiny voice of his conscience, which always sounded suspiciously like John Watson, convinced him that it was better that he stayed away from such a thing.

He was, admittedly, then, thankful when his brother had called upon him one afternoon. Sherlock had stepped into his brother's office. Mycroft waved to one of the seats on the other side of his desk, but Sherlock, as always, refused it. He merely looked at his brother, waiting.

"I have been made aware of a kidnapping by a friend and neighbor of mine, a Mr. Melas, dear brother," Mycroft said.

"Dull."

The voice had Sherlock glancing quickly at the previously empty chair across from his brother; now, however, Moriarty was sitting there.

"I always thought kidnappings were duller than murders," Moriarty continued. "Then again, I hadn't expected something quite so thrilling coming from _Sir_ Holmes. Your brother really is so much less interesting than your beloved Detective Inspector," he sighed. "But I suppose he'll try and convince you just how _important_ it is to Queen and country."

Sherlock was quiet, to show that he was listening, though his eyes were still on the chair. He did not give any other response, deciding to just wait.

"This friend is an interpreter," Mycroft continued, letting out a steady breath. "He was recently requested to do some work, only he was later concerned over the… details regarding the entire ordeal."

Moriarty let out a noise of frustration. "_Bo-o-o-ori-i-i-ing_," he sing-songed, letting his head fall over the back of the chair, rolling his eyes.

"He was taken to an unknown location. Apparently there were many threats made, and a hostage that my friend—Mr. Melas—was meant to translate for," Mycroft went on, frowning a little at Sherlock's refusal to look at him. "Then the appearance of a woman, before Mr. Melas was once again forced into a car and driven away."

"Ooh," Moriarty said, sitting up attentively now. "There's _always_ a woman—that usually makes it a bit interesting, doesn't it? Adds a bit of drama and excitement to even the dullest of crimes."

Sherlock forced himself to remain silent, finally taking his eyes off of Moriarty and looking back to his brother. "You can arrange for me to speak with him?" he asked.

"Naturally," Mycroft said.

"I'll require to as soon as possible."

"Of course." Mycroft smiled.

"God, your brother is an idiot," Moriarty murmured. A brief, thoughtful look appeared on Sherlock's face at this; well, he couldn't exactly disagree with that.

"It shouldn't take long," Sherlock remarked. "All I have to do is find this mysterious location that Mr. Melas was taken to, and your people will take care of the rest, I assume?"

"That would be right," Mycroft said. "There's no need for you to go running after any of the bad guys or anything of the sort this time, dear brother."

"Because he doesn't want you to have any fun," Moriarty said with another eye roll. He then stared at Sherlock, who clenched his fist slightly. "You know, I could have taken care of him—put you out of your misery…"

"_Stop_," Sherlock snapped. He realized a moment too late that he'd said the word aloud, again staring at the chair. He blinked several times, then looked back to his brother. He cleared his throat, straightening himself slightly. "I should be able to give you the location by tonight," he said soberly. "I can probably get the identity of the woman, as well. Just text me your _friend's_ information."

His eyes flickered once more to Moriarty, who stood up, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, and childishly blew a raspberry at Mycroft before grinning broadly and sauntering out of the room.

And with that, with no actual goodbye or further acknowledgement, Sherlock swept out of the office.

Mycroft watched him go silently, brow furrowed, resting a hand on his chin thoughtfully as he looked back to the still empty chair on the other side of his desk.

* * *

When John stepped into the café, he instantly spotted his companion and made his way to the table. He was vaguely reminded of the last time the two had met as such, and that was over the death of Irene Adler; once again, he knew that the meeting could not possibly have a happy purpose.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted kindly as John sat across from him. "As I'm sure you've guessed, I've asked you here to discuss my brother."

John raised an eyebrow slightly at this; he had assumed this, of course, but had yet to figure out why. "Is this another… danger night or something?" he asked awkwardly. He couldn't imagine it was; the past year had shown the two growing rapidly closer, back to the place they had been before the faked suicide. While he knew that Sherlock was secretive and closed off, he imagined that something large enough to trigger an addict to use again wouldn't be so easily hidden. As far as John could see, things had actually been surprisingly normal since the death of his fiancé.

Mycroft regarded him carefully. "So to speak," he said after a long pause. "I don't fear that my brother returning to drugs is an _immediate_ threat, though, as you're asking."

"Right," John responded. "Er… then…?"

Mycroft sighed. "I have reason to believe that my dear brother is in an otherwise delicate state of mind," he explained.

"How so?"

Mycroft folded his hands together and leaned forward slightly in his chair. "Have you noticed anything… _strange_, as of late? Perhaps not even so recent," he added hastily.

"'Sherlock' and 'strange' pretty much go hand in hand," John said a little bluntly.

"Yes," Mycroft said with his characteristically small smile, which always seemed to hold a patronizing undertone. "But even for his usual self."

John frowned, furrowing his brow and racking his brain for anything that had been out of sorts since his return to Baker Street. There were small peculiarities, he had to admit—however, he had quickly written them off as strange habits and things of the sort that developed during Sherlock's prolonged absence. He had been gone for nearly three years, after all, and changes were bound to occur. Yet there were times he'd seem so distant and disconnected, not so much from him withdrawing into his mind like a tortoise in its shell, but sometimes staring off, as though there was something only he was aware of; not just collecting details, but he was downright distracted, and that was _not_ Sherlock.

He could even remember the week before when he'd returned home from the clinic to find Sherlock fixing himself tea; there was, however, another steaming cup already prepared at the table.

"This for me, then?" John had asked, unable to hide his surprise.

Sherlock had hastily turned around, looking a little shocked at the doctor's presence, as though he hadn't heard him enter the flat—this was strange enough, as Sherlock could easily predict when the bell would ring before it ever did. His eyes flickered to John, the cup of tea, the empty chair, and then back at John.

"Yes," he said plainly after a moment.

"Thank you," John said, sipping at the tea. He frowned slightly. "I don't take sugar," he reminded him. "Suppose you deleted that, though, yeah?" he added teasingly; he was tired, and he appreciated when Sherlock did small things like this, so he couldn't really complain. He was grateful for any kindness that the detective had to offer.

"Right," Sherlock said vaguely, turning back to his own tea. "Must have."

"I take it, then," Mycroft said, and John quickly returned to the present, blinking at the Holmes brother, "that you have, if your expression is any indication." John only frowned at him. "I fear that my brother may be suffering a form of psychosis."

"Psy—_really_?" John asked, taken aback. "Psychosis in what sense?" He folded his hands, shifted in his seat, and then leaned forward toward Mycroft. It was clear that the man had his full attention.

"Hallucinations," Mycroft continued. "At the very least, auditory ones, though I expect them to visually appear as well."

John frowned more deeply at this. "You think your brother is hearing voices?" he said. "And, well… seeing things?"

"In a manner of speaking," the other man said, "yes. Though not so simply put." He sighed, examining his hands for a moment before looking back up at the doctor. "You yourself were believed to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder for some time, Doctor Watson. I believe that my brother is still haunted by his own death, and the events leading up to it." He paused, looking at John intently. "I'm sure you can understand that."

"Sherlock doesn't have PTSD," John assured him. He was aware of the varying lengths that such a disorder could last—that in many cases, if untreated, especially, it could last for the rest of a person's life. Sherlock would definitely fall into that category. Still, he couldn't be convinced; he half worried that he was just trying to deny it to himself, to give himself the reassurance that he wasn't in _that_ bad of a state.

"I agree," Mycroft responded, however. "But I cannot pretend that he isn't suffering in his own self-suppressed manner."

John nodded a little warily, mentally going over every detail since he'd first seen Sherlock again; now, it suddenly seemed easy to see that he was, in fact, afflicted in such a way. John could pinpoint the various emotions the man was evidently trying to quell—the doubt and the guilt and the loathing.

"I'll… I'll look out for him," John offered, though he was unsure. What exactly could he do? Perhaps he could ask Sarah if she had a book on psychosis at the clinic; they did offer small amounts of counseling, from time to time—maybe she could give him some aid in the situation.

Mycroft smiled at him, with more sincerity this time. "I don't doubt that you will, Doctor."


	5. Part Five

**Demons  
****[Part Five of Five]**

_"_When you feel my heat, look into my eyes,  
It's where my demons hide, it's where my demons hide.  
Don't get too close, it's dark inside;  
It's where my demons hide, it's where my demons hide._"  
__- _"Demons" by Imagine Dragons

* * *

"He's been watching you, you know."

Sherlock didn't look at the other man, but his shoulders stiffened as he stirred the sugar into his tea. Only one cup today; he wasn't about to make the mistake of preparing one for a figment of his imagination. Not again. He'd been lucky that John had made assumptions, that he hadn't asked further questions.

"He's thinks you've gone mad, my dear detective," the voice came silkily and Sherlock held his head high as he walked back into the sitting room. "And he is quite right."

Sherlock huffed out a breath as he sipped his tea. "Unimportant," he murmured, over the brim of his mug.

Moriarty chuckled at this. "You really think you can try and convince me you don't care what the doctor thinks?" he scoffed in a low voice. "Oh, love, you are _so_ wrong." He smiled. "Madder than I thought."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As though your opinion would be at all significant to me," he said, taking another sip of tea.

"Okay, so mine isn't," Moriarty sighed, shrugging, his hands in his pockets. The image distinctly reminded Sherlock of the first time they'd properly met, at the pool. He tried to push away the thought—not important. "But _his_ is." He walked closer to him now, still with the air of casual smugness, haughty and self-satisfied. "I know how important he is to you, what he thinks and all that. And don't even _try_ to pretend with me, dear, because you know it won't work. I've had so much time to examine every millimeter of that brilliant mind of yours, and I _know_ just how much space he takes up, in there." He smiled. "So… interesting. I knew from the first moment that he mattered too much to you. Why else would he have ended up with a bomb strapped to him?"

Sherlock's hands reflexively tightened over the mug he was holding. He tried to calmly drink some more, but it now tasted far too bitter on his tongue, the same flavor as the words Moriarty was spewing at him.

"What will you do about it?" the other man asked at last, and Sherlock raised his eyes to him, narrowed.

"What will I do about _what_?" he snapped softly.

"The doctor, of course," Moriarty said, dropping himself into said man's chair. "The way he's been looking at you… probably contemplating Bedlam, for you."

"Hardly," Sherlock told him.

Moriarty shrugged. "I wouldn't be so sure," he said. "It would be an easy solution to the madman in his flat."

"He can't see the madman in the flat," Sherlock bit out.

Moriarty chuckled. "But you can," he responded. "So tell me, sweetheart, when you say it like that, who really sounds insane?"

"Sherlock?"

The detective turned to the doorway, spotting John, looking at him concernedly. His lips were forming a tight frown, his eyebrows knitted together.

"John," he said breezily in acknowledgement.

John took a step forward. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Who were you talking to?"

"When?"

John closed his eyes for a moment. "Just now," he clarified in a steady voice; it was a familiar tone, one he used with Sherlock when he was being petulant or otherwise childish.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this. He gestured vaguely to the skull that still sat at the mantle. "John, surely you recall—"

"_Sherlock_." The warning was firm, but gentle. The taller man let his shoulders fall slightly, lifting his chin slightly. "Don't." John let out a slow breath and took another few steps into the room, approaching the man, who tilted his head to the side, watching him as he came closer. "Don't you dare even start this," he said. "You can't—" He broke off with a frustrated sigh, and Sherlock noticed the way he did his best to contort his features into an expression of cool calmness. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to close up, pretend that everything's just peachy. It doesn't take a bloody consulting detective to see that it's not!"

"Clever, your doctor," Moriarty murmured with a cruel smile and shining dark eyes. "He really has figured out you've gone mad."

"You don't get to just… shut me out," John went on. "Not again, Sherlock. Not after…" He swallowed tightly, words dying in his throat.

"_Ah,_" Moriarty continued, pushing himself up, out of his chair and walking to Sherlock. He placed a hand just on the detective's shoulder blade, arm across his back, radiating heat that shouldn't exist; he stood at Sherlock's side as he looked to the doctor with a predatory expression. "The pain from your _death_ is still so clear," he commented. "I suppose it does my heart good to see that I helped ruin such a beautiful friendship. To think—he sees it all as your inability to trust him. Sure, protection, but you couldn't even let him in on the secret. And now, he thinks you're doing it again." He tilted his head a little to the side. "Suppose you are, though. As though you'd ever _admit_ that you've completely lost your mind."

"Sherlock." He started slightly, eyes focusing once more on John, whose expression was soft with worry. "Please," he sighed. "I'm… I'm your friend."

Moriarty scoffed at this.

John wet his lips again. "And at the very least, I'm a doctor," he offered. "Maybe… well, maybe I could offer some help with whatever you're going through."

"_Please_," Moriarty groaned.

Still, the words echoed in the detective's mind. _Of course_—there was a definite truth in the statement. Sherlock was aware, naturally, that John had medical experience; he'd treated enough wounds on him while in their flat that he could hardly deny it. Yet there was something different to be reminded of the fact in this case; _of course_ John would have to be aware of at least minimal psychological disorders from his schooling, and then there was his own brief time spent in therapy. It had been a useless venture, of course, but the fact remained that there might be some sort of solution that John could offer.

Maybe…

"You're wrong," Moriarty whispered brightly, but Sherlock swallowed, trying to ignore him.

"As a doctor, then," he began, his voice so quiet that John furrowed his brow slightly as he focused on the words. "Someone who came to the clinic and was suffering hallucinations—" He tried not to flinch at the admission, but he failed. "What would you do for them?"

John did his best not to react too strongly; yet, there was the proof. The proof that Mycroft had been right in his suspicions, that there was definitely something very wrong with the way that Sherlock's mind saw fit to cope. He spoke calmly. "When did these start?" he asked.

Sherlock looked down at his tea.

"_Sherlock_," John prompted. "There's nothing you can do or say that will make me think any less of you."

"_Wrong_," Moriarty breathed.

"What are you seeing?" John asked instead, a little more adamantly this time.

"Him," he whispered. Sherlock tried to shut the apparition out, closing his eyes tightly. "Moriarty." He could still sense John stiffen uncomfortably with a sharp intake of breath; this is what he didn't want. He knew that there was just as much pain for his companion to relive through the admission.

He felt as John plucked the cup of tea from his hands, then led him over to the sofa. Sherlock sank into the seat, John perching himself on the edge of the coffee table. He was incredibly close, their knees knocking together, shins aligned. John leaned forward, elbows resting on his legs so he was in Sherlock's immediate space.

"Look at me," he said gently. "Focus on me, Sherlock." The man blinked at him. "Whatever he may be saying to you, he's wrong," he said.

Moriarty's laughter drifted through the air.

"When did this start?" he asked again.

"While I was gone," he murmured in response. He glanced down at where their legs were, so close; he could feel the warmth of John, through the fabric of his trousers. "I… There was a lull. I was reduced to less than admirable habits," he admitted. "Cocaine commonly causes hallucinations, but I had never been reduced to them." His eyes flickered up to John's again; the man was watching him intently, proving that he was listening. There wasn't an ounce of judgment on his features. "I assumed that it would be that one time; if that was a result of the drug, then it was merely something I'd avoid."

"But he showed up again," John offered. "When?"

"When I came back." He felt as John's warm, comforting hand covered his own. He focused on the calloused fingers, the feeling of safety that washed over him. It made it easier to talk this way; he wondered if this was a method John had picked up at some point in handling events difficult to talk about. He tried to ignore the slight feeling of irritation at being treated like he was fragile, capable of breaking from emotional trauma. It was a ridiculous notion.

And, it was just a little bit true.

"You were clean, then?" Sherlock nodded in response, staring at John's hand over his, the way his thumb rubbed soothing circles into his own skin. "So then he began to appear in moments of high emotion—triggered by stressors and doubts. Am I right?" Again Sherlock nodded. "I guess he became more frequent? It's… it's been a long time since then, Sherlock. And I…" he sighed. "I didn't notice." Sherlock glanced at him curiously. He hadn't quite expected such a response.

"The last few months," Sherlock supplied. "He's been a regrettable constant."

"Your words wound me so," Moriarty said, advancing on the detective. He settled himself beside him on the couch. "Regrettable?" He chuckled. "Well, I think not…"

"Sherlock," John said quietly. The detective realized that his eyes had drifted to the seat beside him, and again forced his attention to the doctor over the madman. "I need you to focus on me," he said. "What has he said?"

"Oh, the moment of truth, my dear."

"I want to help you."

"As if he could…"

"Sherlock…"

The detective swallowed; he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, staring intently at John. He let his eyes take in every detail of the man's face; he still had them memorized, but allowing himself to watch each centimeter of skin helped him keep his mind away from the other image.

"Doubts," he murmured. "How foolish I've been. About everything—everyone. That I've convinced myself wrongly that I deserve some place here."

John licked his lips. "Here?" he asked softly. He wrapped both of his hands around Sherlock's, curling his fingers over his.

"Alive," Sherlock clarified. "On Baker Street. With…" He cleared his throat. "With you."

"He's wrong," John repeated, his voice attempting gentleness but coming out rough with emotion. "He's always been wrong."

"He's lying," Moriarty hissed vehemently in Sherlock's ear.

"I…" John swallowed, wetting his lips and trying again. "I want to try something." He paused. "Do you trust me?" He offered a weak, tight-lipped smile.

Sherlock could only nod at this.

"_Don't_," Moriarty warned.

"Just focus on me," he said slowly. He shifted closer slightly so that one of his knees slid between Sherlock's legs, so that there was hardly any space between them. He let one hand slide up Sherlock's arm, resting on his bicep, the other hand resting over one of the detective's, splayed over his knee. "Like you said before, it's—it's just you and me, yeah? Just the two of us…" He smiled softly, a little nervously as his eyes slowly drifted up to meet the detective's piercing pale stare. The sensations of touch were already causing flares of electricity, bursting through his skin, slowing his mind so that he could catalogue each and every moment of it, down to the nanosecond.

And then, the hand on Sherlock's leg instead reached for his face, his warm palm against his jaw, fingers brushing against his sharp cheekbone. John gently guided him forward; there was nothing forceful about the touch, almost as though Sherlock was merely following the hand so that he didn't have to part from the glorious sensation. At last, their mouths were a breath apart, until John's eyes fluttered closed and crossed the tiny distance, pressing their lips together.

"_NO!_" Moriarty roared, but the sound was drowned out by the deafening silence a second later. Sherlock was quickly collecting data from all of his senses; the way that John's breath caught and then inhaled sharply through his nose; the way that their noses bumped slightly and lips were soft and warm and chaste; the way that John smelled of wood and tea something so undeniably _John_; and even (through eyes that were only open a crack, mostly out of the refusal to deny anything being left to his imagination) the way that John's brow seemed more relaxed than he'd ever seen it, as though kissing Sherlock was what finally brought him to peace.

At last, John pulled away just slightly. They were quiet.

"That…" Sherlock said at last.

"Did it help?" John questioned, and he fidgeted slightly in his seat; perhaps he hadn't been quite as confident as Sherlock had assumed. The idea brought a smile to his lips and he nodded. "It's not…" He cleared his throat. "It's not exactly a cure-all."

"I hardly think it's traditionally appropriate treatment," Sherlock quipped, and John laughed fully.

"No, no, I suppose not," he agreed.

"I also must full-heartedly object if it's how all of your patients are treated."

John continued to smile, shaking his head. "No," he said. "Definitely not."

"Good."

"Yeah," John agreed. "Good." He cleared his throat again. "I suppose, though… that there should be more tests done?" he offered. "To ensure that this wasn't a one-time cure for these hallucinations."

"Multiple executions are generally necessary for a theory to be proved empirically," Sherlock affirmed.

John nodded. "Yes, good," he said. "Definitely good. Then…"

He looked at Sherlock for approval. When he seemed to find what he was looking for, he closed the distance again.


End file.
